Yet sometimes milder hours she knew,
Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew,
Nor pastimes of the May.
They all were with her in her cell, And a wild brook with cheerful kneel Did o'er the pebbles play.
When Ruth three seasons thus had lain,
There came a respite to her pain;
She from her prison fled;
But of the Vagrant none took thought;
And where it liked her best she sought
Her shelter and her bread.
Among the fields she breathed again:
The master-current of her brain
Ran permanent and free;
And, coming to the banks of Tone,
There did she rest; and dwelt alone
Under the greenwood tree.
The engines of her pain, the tools
That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools,
And airs that gently stir
The vernal leaves, she loved them still,
Nor ever taxed them with the ill
Which had been done to her.
A Barn her winter bed supplies;
But, till the warmth of summer skies
And summer days is gone,
(And all do in this tale agree,)
She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none.
An innocent life, yet far astray!
And Ruth will, long before her day,
Be broken down and old:
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind, than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold.
If she is prest by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road side;
And there she begs at one steep place
Where up and down with easy pace
The horsemen-travellers ride.
That oaten Pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute.
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock Woodman hears.
I, too, have passed her on the hills,
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy Child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.
"WITH sacrifice before the rising morn
Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required:
Celestial pity I again implore;
Restore him to my sight-great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the Sun emerging from a Cloud,
Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands,
Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows;
And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy!
What doth she look on? whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not -'tis He!
And a God leads him-winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake and touched her with his wand That calms all fear, "Such grace hath crowned thy
Laodamia! that at Jove's command
Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;
Accept the gift, behold him face to face!"
Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp;
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The Phantom parts - but parts to reunite,
And reassume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!
Confirm, I pray, the Vision with thy voice:
This is our Palace,- yonder is thy throne;
Speak, and the floor thou treadest on will rejoice.
Not to appall me have the Gods bestowed
This precious boon, and blest a sad Abode."
"Great Jove, Laodamia! doth not leave
His gifts imperfect: Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive;
But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain;
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die; but me the threat could not withhold; A generous cause a Victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain;
A self-devoted chief- by Hector slain."
"Supreme of Heroes - bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage 1 bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest
By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
Thou found'stand I forgive thee here thou art A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
But thou, though capable of sternest deed,
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed
That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave;
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this;
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side!
Give, on this well known couch, one nuptial kiss
To me, this day, a second time thy bride!"
Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcæ threw
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past :
Know, virtue were not virtue if the joys
Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys
Those raptures duly Erebus disdains:
Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains.
Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control
Rebellious passion: for the Gods approve
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul;
A fervent, not ungovernable love.
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—"
"Ah, wherefore? -Did not Hercules by force
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb
Alcestis, a reanimated Corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom?
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years,
And Æson stood a Youth 'mid youthful peers.
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